Mending
by downcastlashes
Summary: Evil!Guinevere distracts her king in their chambers the night before she kills Tyr.


**Notes/warnings:** **This fic includes face-sitting, scratching/biting, etc. WARNING FOR SOME POTENTIAL CONSENT ISSUES DUE TO MAGICAL MIND-CONTROL, as Gwen was being used as a vessel for Morgana's evil deeds at the time and doing and thinking things she wouldn't as Queen Gwen. To be safe, please be aware of the potential non-consensual nature of this fic (which might be triggering to some).**

**This fic hasn't been properly beta'ed, so please excuse the grammar errors.**

* * *

There's a knock on the door and Arthur bids their caller to enter. It's Merlin; he's been to see Tyr in Camelot's dungeons, he says. Gwen bristles, her pulse quickening and heartbeat thumping a staccato rhythm in her chest. She sucks in tiny increments of air, expelling them out in light puffs, small enough to avoid Arthur and Merlin reading her momentary panic. She calms her thoughts and tells herself that her plan is fail-safe because everyone has been so easy to fool, especially her king.

"You went to the cells to see Tyr?" Arthur questions Merlin. He's unable to say why, but there's an inkling of doubt stirring in him. What motive did Tyr have to want to end his life? This was someone who had lied for him when as a young prince he had stolen into the stables late at night to pet the horses and let them lick sugar from his palms. At the time, neither had known it was bad for them. The memory haunts him, but the evidence against his childhood acquaintance is too strong to ignore and he quickly reminds Merlin.

"No one denies the crime sire, but the only part Tyr played was to see it done," Merlin says earnestly.

"He told you this?"

"Five minutes ago."

"And who was it?"

"He wouldn't say, he's too frightened; they threatened him."

'Threatened,' Arthur thinks. Who would threaten Tyr and his mother? He can think of no suspects, at least not anyone in Camelot. His people still love him, don't they? He has done so much to protect them from forces that seek to harm them and destroy their livelihoods, hasn't he? Suppose this threat is a commoner who can no longer abide by Camelot's harsh laws against magic?

Gwen waits and watches her husband silently. She can almost see the thoughts racing through his mind as he puzzles over his exchange with Merlin.

"I must speak with him at once," Arthur finally says.

Gwen can't let this be. "Surely it can wait! Gaius told you to rest, let your injuries heal," she says, expressing such genuine concern, she has almost fooled into believing she cares for him. She knows that he'll stay, after all, from what she can remember, she has always had the ability to sway his decisions.

"I'll be fine Guinevere, I just want to hear what he has to say," he assures her. He knows she's concerned for him, but he needs to wring the truth from Tyr before it's too late.

"And you shall, but Tyr's said all he's willing to say for now."

Arthur looks at Guinevere, guilt worming its way into his thoughts. She's been through enough these past days and he fears further worrying her. Their anniversary plans ended disastrously and they haven't had much time alone; she had also lost Elyan so close to the death of her father. It's only a harmless visit to the dungeons, but he can see how much it weighs on his wife to see him exhausting himself. He survived a fall earlier and a scrimmage with bandits; they had both flirted too closely with death lately.

"He's clearly frightened and…unsure what to do—don't push him," she urges, hiding her true feelings under false concern for Tyr. She needs him to stay, but she can't push or they'll both know something is amiss.

Arthur lingers at the door, his queen's words chipping away at his resolve.

"Let him think it over and maybe after a night in the cells, he'll be prepared to say more," Gwen suggests. She looks at him, her gaze pleading with him to consider all that she has said.

Her council has always been sound and she has a point; he doesn't want to terrify Tyr with his presence. "As always Guinevere, you're right," Arthur says. His words immediately bring a smile to her face.

Arthur moves past Guinevere, gently dragging his palm across her middle. Despite that his touch is over layers of fabric, she feels butterfly wings in her abdomen. She runs her hand over his with promise. She knows that she has the upper hand and desire stirs within her at the thought. She shoots Merlin a friendly smile, a final dismissal. Triumph simmers beneath her upturned lips. She turns away, sashaying after Arthur, who's heading further into their quarters towards their bed. Tonight she'll do her duty, take her pleasure from him and cloud his mind with one taste of her.

Merlin senses inauspiciousness under that smile, but he leaves the royal chambers, knowing that he no longer has an audience with his king and queen.

* * *

Arthur's sitting on his side of their bed and leaning back on his palms. He's watching her as she stalks toward him from across the room. "I'm sorry…I just need to find out the truth. I hadn't meant to leave you alone in our chambers after—"

"It's alright Arthur, you have nothing to apologise for," she cuts into his stammering plea, knowing exactly what he wants to hear. She steps between his spread legs, then slides her hands behind his head and tilts his face toward her for a chaste kiss.

"Let us forget about that conversation tonight, please," she mummers a hair's breadth away from his lips.

"As you wish," he breathes, his gaze softens as desire for her slowly seeps into him, spreading warmth down to his toes. He straightens his back, shifts toward the edge of the bed and hugs her close, tightening his grip on her waist. He runs his hands up and down her back, massaging his fingers into her muscles through the material covering her soft skin. He's taken to holding her like his, running his hands back and forth to feel her, tangible beneath his touch. As if it's an illusion standing in front of him. As if it fills him with dread that she'll unravel and dissipate like white smoke from a campfire.

Gwen grows impatient with his reverent worship of her. 'Must it be like this from now on' she wonders, 'all gentle touches and questing finger tips?' There's a fog that envelopes her memories; she wonders how she's managed her wifely duties with no love on her part and complete devotion on his. He handles her as though she's made of the painted glass that decorates the windows of their chambers. His lovemaking, his unyielding longing to cling to her like a babe, unnerves her.

Normally, she would indulge him with equally sweet caresses and words until they were both trembling with need, but there isn't enough time to play that game. Tyr's very existence jeopardises her mistress' plans and the night grows longer every second Arthur presses his hands to her. She thinks she'll have no chance to steal away from her husband, but he finally begins tugging at her skirts, trailing his hands up and under and against her skin. He turns her back to him to loosen her ties; piece by piece, her riding outfit comes apart, floating to the floor like ripened autumn leaves. She's standing bare before him and she thinks that he'll notice that she isn't as wet as she could be, that her skin isn't as flushed, and he'll wonder if something's amiss. But he's staring at her with thirst, like he's just returned from training and she's an overflowing cup of wine.

She pulls his tunic over his head, then kneels and eagerly slides his breeches and braies down his hips. He grunts as the material hitches on his cock, rubbing against it when she drags it down his legs. She grips him, squeezes and rubs him into full hardness while he whimpers like a pup, watching her beneath long blonde lashes. She must admit that her husband has an impressive tool and all these years of courtship-of stealing away into the darkened alcoves; of clumsy groping and pushing his fingers into her cunt under the heavy tapestries against the wall while their subjects search for them-has taught him how to please a woman. She leans forward, licks the tip of his cock and he groans, grabbing her arms to stop her. She stands and he presses his lips against hers, gently pushing his tongue between them and massaging her tongue. The slow burn irritates her though and pulls away from his lips, holding his jaw firmly in her hands.

"Kiss me, Arthur," she implores in frustration.

His brow furrows, "I am kissing you."

"I mean really kiss me."

He looks at her even more nonplussed. Anger sparks in her at his obliviousness, but she smiles at him, exuding a kind of playfulness.

"Arthur, is that how a starving man eats the first meal he's been granted in weeks?" she asks sweetly.

"You're not a hunk of bread," he scoffs at her.

"Neither am I a delicate gillyflower that will tear with a simple pluck. Kiss. Me. Husband."

His nostrils flare slightly at Guinevere's demand. He knows what she wants from him. He wets his lips, lies back on their bed and hauls her on top of him, roughly pushing apart her legs to straddle his torso. He buries his hands in her curls and brings her down to his lips, kissing her with abandon, slipping his tongue further into her mouth. He's pressed against her so hard, she's sure her lips will be bruised and swollen for days. 'Yes,' she thinks, 'it's easier this way.'

Tingles course down her spine, through her belly to the bundle of nerves above her sex; she needs relief. She's trembling and rubbing her center against the hard muscle of his stomach. She pulls away, begging, "please, Arthur." She expects him to take her now, hold her down on the thick length of him, slide into her as their moans mix together in a chorus. But he surprises her and pushes her hips up his chest until she's flush against his chin. She squeezes her eyes shut as she feels his hot breath on her sex. He teases her, lavishes kittenish licks on her clit, sending goose pimples along her skin. 'Hurry,' she thinks, but worries her teeth against her lips to stamp down the words threatening to spill from her.

Arthur grips her hips even harder now, bringing her directly over his mouth. Her fingers wander into his hair as his thumbs spread her wide open; his lips curve against her; tongue slides into her and back and forth and back again along her slit. She feels like she could fuck him to death, suffocate him with her cunt and she stifles her laughter at the thought.

He thinks he could die like this, lying under her, sucking at her as he pushes his fingers inside her and she's crying out. He feels her trying to hold on, but she almost loses her balance. Guinevere clutches at his hands and pulls them from her center, pinning them next to his head as leverage as she grinds down against his mouth.

He's tracing her wetness with his tongue, gasping into her, humming and making the most based noises as though he's never tasted anything like her. She can't think; the pleasure overwhelms her as he sucks her nub into his mouth, holds it between lips and teeth and flicks her clit with his tongue. She comes hard, muscles spasming, babbling his name like a prayer.

Arthur grabs her waist to keep her from collapsing against him and when she finally stops shuddering, boneless and sated, she slips down his body like warm honey. Guinevere barely recovers before he's pumping his cock inside her warmth with a hiss. She leans up on her forearms to take him deeper inside her, riding him in slow circles. Her cinnamon-coloured eyes rove over his face, coming to rest on his blue ones, almost blown black in the dull candle light.

He's snapping his hips into into her roughly, impatiently, releasing all the emotional turmoil between them, giving fully into his desperation for her. "I love you, so much," he chokes out. She doesn't say anything in return, just covers his mouth with her own, needing to stifle his endearments. 'You're nothing to me,' she reminds herself, 'nothing but an obstacle to the throne.' She wants to hurt him, wrap her hands around his neck and squeeze until his last breath rattles from his throat. "Harder, please," she moans instead as she digs her nails into his sweat-slicked flesh. Arthur groans as her nails bite into him, and suddenly she's flat on her back, gasping under his heaviness, her core clenching and empty. He slams back into her, coercing a sharp cry of pleasure out of her. She's so close and her vision crosses as she hurtles toward the end.

He nuzzles at her breasts, then pulls a nipple into his mouth, heightening her pleasure. He's teetering on the precipice now, fucking into her erratically forgetting everything—the pain from her nails scratching against his back—everything, but her cunt around him, the taste of her, the smell of sex, their bed, this room; she's all that will ever matter. He slides his hand between them to rub at her clit, wanting to her to finish with him, only for him, until his last breath. He feels her hips buck, then buckle; she stiffens and bares her teeth, sinking them into his shoulder, muffling the scream that tears from her deep within her chest as she falls over the edge.

He follows her soon after, his seed flooding into her as she's quivering against him.

They're lying entwined with his weight still pressed against her and his head on her breast. She's stroking his damp hair tenderly, soothing his exhausted body to sleep. "It's okay Arthur, it won't be long now." 'Yes, it won't be long until we're past this,' Arthur thinks as he drifts off, curled into Guinevere's embrace.

Gwen wills herself to stay awake, tiredness threatening to engulf her, until she hears his soft snores. She dresses once more and steals down to the dungeons.


End file.
